


He’s Leaving Home

by ATwistOfLemonLyman



Series: The Gods Have Conspired [2]
Category: The West Wing
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Backstory, Can be read on its own, Gen, Period-Typical Racism, Physical Abuse, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-01
Updated: 2018-07-07
Packaged: 2019-05-31 12:14:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15119198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ATwistOfLemonLyman/pseuds/ATwistOfLemonLyman
Summary: The McGarry family - Chicago 1948-A member of the McGarry family leaves home.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Warning, there is an archaic and offensive term that was once used to refer to Muslim people in this chapter. 
> 
> Leo will not be making an appearance until chapter 2.

* * *

_**1948** _

_**Chicago, IL** _

* * *

_[He] is leaving home_

_After living alone_

_For so many years._

_~ She’s Leaving Home -The Beatles_

* * *

 

  “Lousy little shit,” Frank grumbled as he walked into the living room and caught sight of his son sitting on an armchair, curled towards the lamplight, with a book in his hands. Frank was annoyed by the mere sight of Mike and the word “Bauhaus” emblazoned on the cover of Mike’s book rankled him further.

  “Stuck up brat,” he thought as he read the German word that meant nothing to him but, knowing Mike, he assumed it probably had something to do with architecture.

  That was one of the many things things Frank didn’t understand about his son- his drive, his obsession, the stacks and stacks of books he brought home from the library all of them about architecture and far off places.

  The day that Father O’Shaughnessy had reprimanded him, nearly a decade ago now, he’d been told that his lot in life was to be a good husband, father, and provider; the first, according to Father O’Shaughnessy, required that he resume relations with his wife (Frank had blushed scarlet and wondered how the padre knew; had Rose said something during confession? Had only one child after several years of marriage given away the fact that the McGarrys did not live in connubial bliss?), the second: that he curb his temper with the boy.

  “Discipline is one thing, Francis, but you’re too hard on the lad,” the priest had said in his Irish lilt. “A spanking will do, no need to cuff him.”

 Father O’Shaughnessy didn’t have much to say in regards to being a good provider; he knew that Frank had a steady job and wasn’t a loafer.

  “Mind how you spend your wages,” was all the man had said, that meant he wanted Frank to control his drinking.

  Of course Frank had found a way around that last part, he’d do better at his job, get a promotion, climb the ladder just high enough so that he could maintain his habit and not be told he was shirking his responsibilities as a family man, but no higher than that, no going past middle management.

 Frank made, in his opinion, a perfectly respectable living in the insurance business, enough that he could get away with drinking most of his money and was still able to afford to dress nicely and provide a slightly more than modest living for his family. There’d be no priest telling him to mind his duties as a husband and provider these days. Sure, Mike slept in the attic, but there were new shoes for the children at the beginning of the school year, smart suits for Leo and dresses for the girls so they’d look respectable for mass, the occasional trips back to Boston to see Frank and Rose’s parents and extended family. A bigger house was slightly out of his grasp but they were doing well enough without it and besides, the layout of their humble home kept Frank and Mike out of each other’s hair most of the time and that suited everyone just fine. Frank McGarry was content, whether he truly felt that way or not, because he was told to be content.

  Frank had expected this same middle class contentment of the son that hated him and was unpleasantly surprised when he discovered that the boy thought to make a profession of his doodling, wanted to travel to Europe to see the great cathedrals, to the Middle East and Asia to see the grand structures of the mohammedans, he wanted to go to college, he wanted a career, and he expected to make good money.

  -

  -

 Even if he hadn’t heard the grumble or the creaking of wooden floorboards he would have known that his father had entered the room because quite suddenly he felt like he was in a distillery. Mike’s nose wrinkled as the overpowering smell of alcohol assaulted him; anger at his father's alcohol-fueled foul mood caused Mike to glare up at the man.

  Frank could be a handful sober, a handful but not altogether boorish or unpleasant, he was capable of being pleasant and charming when the mood struck him. Drunk Frank was something else; overly gregarious in an excessively masculine and vulgar sort of way (the way a man was with his brothers and cousins or his pals at the bar), cruel and aggressive with Mike and Rose.

  The glare was a mistake, one Mike knew not to make by now. It never took much to annoy Frank when he was drunk and removed from the macho environments of the bars he frequented, anything even remotely connected to Mike could set him off; the boy’s very existence was an act of defiance against Frank that the man found intolerable. With his departure for Connecticut fast approaching, Mike had been truculent lately and he didn’t mind poking a sleeping bear so much when he wouldn’t be living in such close quarters with the ornery violent creature. 

  Mike's reaction predictably rubbed Frank the wrong way and in his anger he took a step toward Mike, swung his arm, and knocked the book out of his son's hands.

  Mike flinched, startled, not by the action that he had seen coming in slow motion but, by the volume of the clap when his book landed hard and flat on a section of floor that didn’t have the protective covering of a rug.

  “I was reading that,” Mike said evenly, feeling too tired from a day of work at the stockyards to take further action against his father past the glare but still too angry to stop those four words from slipping past his lips.

  “Really?” Frank asked rhetorically as he drew himself up to his full height. Even after straightening his posture his eldest was three inches taller and the act, which was meant to be menacing, did not have the intended effect on Mike. It had worked when he’d been a boy but not anymore, all Mike had to do to assert physical dominance over his father was to imitate the older man’s actions; it rarely failed to make his father feel small, not just physically but at a deeper level- it chiseled away at him and made him feel inferior.

 Mike stood up without making his own primitive display of dominance and walked over to the book that had been unceremoniously smacked from his grip. Before he could pick the book up, his father laid a heavy foot on it, daring Mike to try and pry the book from under the polished wingtip brogues.

  “I'm done with this bullshit,” Mike said as he pushed past Frank. Years ago that physical contact, his shoulder brushing roughly against his father’s, would have earned Mike a blow but he was too big for that now.

  “What the hell do you think you're doing?” Frank asked, this time his question demanded an answer from Mike.

  The young man ignored his father and made his way up the stairs, up to his bedroom in the attic.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about any grammar/spelling issues, it was hot as Hades while I was writing this and it was just too much of an effort to go over this while dealing with the heat. Enjoy!

   Mike had packed the majority of his things days ago, he was eager to leave the McGarry household for Yale even if the first day of the semester was months away. He dragged a canvas military surplus duffel bag out from under his bed and tossed it on top, causing the mattress to dip slightly, he then added a leather portfolio and a small satchel to the pile on his bed. Mike proceeded to collect a few articles of clothing from his dresser and shoved them into the duffel.

   He was leaving a fair amount of clothes behind, not because he intended to leave hand-me-downs for Leo; his little brother was so much younger than him that Mike’s clothes were bound to be far too out of fashion by the time they’d fit Leo. Mike was only taking the best of what he had, whatever he’d need to fit in better with the other young men at Yale, limiting himself to what he could carry. After finishing up with his duffle he pulled the drawer of his bedside table open, taking two photographs out of it. One photograph was of twelve year-old Mike holding baby Leo outside of church after his christening. Both boys were squinting, the sun was in their eyes because whoever had taken the photograph, an uncle if Mike remembered correctly, was more concerned about the boys showing up properly on film than their expressions. Mike had tried his best to smile regardless but it looked more like a grimace than a grin; he was rather fond of the photograph even if it wasn’t flattering, he liked the nearly matching expressions he and baby Leo had.

  The other photograph was of Mike at 15, sitting cross-legged on the living room floor with one year old Josie on his lap and Leo and Birdie (she still refused to be called Elizabeth) on either side of him. Leo’s smile was so big that his eyes were about as visible as they were in the christening photograph and Birdie was leaning over Mike’s leg and holding onto the baby’s chubby fist. He remembered his mother kneeling down in front of them to take the photograph so that she could get them at eye level, the skirt of her dress falling neatly in a circle around her. Mike was even more fond of the memory of her mother than of the photograph itself.

  Things had gotten easier for everyone when his siblings had come along. Frank had eased up considerably on his eldest and that meant Rose spent less time trying to defend and protect Mike, but in the three years that had passed since that photograph had been taken Frank’s drinking had still managed to continue slowly draining the life out of his wife. Rose McGarry was still a beautiful woman, her face and hair reminding  nearly everyone that saw her of Rita Hayworth, but it was impossible to hide the exhaustion in her eyes or the roundness of her tired shoulders.

  Mike tucked the photographs into the portfolio that contained his sketches and drafts with inordinate care, as if they were delicate ornaments made of spun glass and not images on paper. After he snapped the portfolio closed Mike shouldered his duffel bag and gathered up the rest of his things.

 

* * *

 

  The commotion that Frank and Mike had caused had not escaped the notice of the rest of the household, it never did; even sleepy-eyed Josie was sitting up in her cot hoping that someone would appear and comfort her after being startled awake by the shouting.

  “Frank? What’s going on, what’s Mike doing?” Rose asked as she entered the living room. She pulled her robe tighter around herself, a nervous gesture and not an attempt at modesty.

  “Damned if I know,” Frank snapped back at his wife.

  Rose tugged at her robe again, hoping that they hadn’t come to blows. Her husband hadn’t struck Mike in quite some time but Rose knew better than to expect men to change for good, Frank was drunk and anything was possible.

  Just as Rose began looking for signs that Frank had been violent and that Mike had fought back she saw her son descending the stairs. Her boy gave her a sad crooked smile as their eyes met; both of her sons had gotten that smile from Frank but Mike’s lopsided grin still had little Leo’s sweetness.

  “Michael?”

   “I’m sorry, Ma, I’ve gotta go.”

  Rose bit her lip as it began to tremble and nodded her understanding, she looked over at Frank and saw him angrily cross his arms over his chest then she turned back to look at Mike when she felt her eyes begin to burn.

  “Please don’t cry, Ma,” Mike whispered. “I promise I’ll write.”

  Finding herself unable to speak Rose nodded again and tried to smile at Mike, she didn’t want his last memory of her before he left to be of her sobbing.

  Mike kissed his mother’s forehead gently and as a result of his kiss she managed to give him a smile, she was certain was a pathetic little smile but given the circumstances it was the best she could manage.

  “Be careful out there,” whispered through the tightness in her throat as she smoothed the collar of Mike’s shirt.

 Mike nodded and turned away when his mother removed her fussing hands.

  The tenderness of the moment with his mother evaporated when Mike caught sight of Frank and his angry expression.

  Mike would be lying to himself if he told himself that he wasn’t concerned that by leaving and removing himself as the source and target of Frank McGarry’s ire his father would take out his aggression on his three siblings, who thus far had only had to suffer the secondary effects of Frank’s wrath: overhearing him berate Mike whenever the opportunity presented itself for Frank to do so.

  Because of his concern over removing himself as a buffer Mike decided to issue a warning. As Mike closed the distance between himself and his father he felt that he needed to adjust the weight of his duffel on his shoulder but he decided to wait until after his own display of dominance was over, it wouldn’t do to start fussing over the strap the way his mother had fussed over his collar just now.

  Frank’s angry expression remained unchanged as Mike stopped directly in front of him.

  “If I _EVER_ find out that you've laid a hand on _ANY_ of them I'll come back and fucking kill you,” Mike growled at Frank, the tone frighteningly similar to Frank’s earlier that evening.

  Mike’s rage was enough to remove the scowl on his father’s face. That anger frightened Frank and left him too startled to ask how his son would find out if he did to his youngest children what he used to do to Mike when there would be hundreds of miles between them. In that moment he was certain that what Mike would make good on his promise.

  Mike turned away, letting his father stew in the fear his warning had filled the room with.

  Once he was outside of the house Mike let out a tired sigh and adjusted the strap that had had been digging uncomfortably into his shoulder. As soon as Mike made it past the fence surrounding the house he saw a light flicker on from one of the bedroom windows.

  “Mike don't go, please don't go!” he heard Birdie screaming from her window.

   The scream and the sobbing that followed immediately after were primal and made him feel something deep in the pit of his stomach that spread with astonishing speed through his whole body, making the hair on his body stand and causing him to curl inward as if he’d been struck a blow to his chest.

  “Mike, please!” She begged between sobs, her hysteria building. “Mike!”

  Mike made the mistake of turning back, perhaps to get a last look at his sister for god only knew how long, or maybe to convey some sort of non-verbal apology. He hadn’t expected to see Leo standing beside Birdie, looking groggy and confused, woken up by the all the shouting and clearly startled by Birdie’s shrill and terrifying screams.

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Mike chanted as he continued forward, trying desperately not to let his sister’s sobs and his brother’s face make him turn back.

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” with every single step of the way to Central Station.

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” to the rhythm of the North Shore Limited bound for New York.

* * *

 

**Author's Note:**

> This was meant to be a single chapter but I’m having trouble with what is now the second half and I don’t think i’ll Be ready to publish it for another day or two and I have been chomping at the bit to publish ANYTHING after the dry spell I’ve had. 
> 
> Please review if you like this, reviews (and kudos) really help motivate me to write!
> 
> For extras on the The Gods Have Conspired series you can go to thegodshaveconspired.tumblr.com ^_^


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